


Ink

by owljustsitinthecorner



Category: X-Factor (Comics)
Genre: 1788 words of rictor feelings, M/M, No Dialogue, also inspired by an idea from lucas which was inspired by ppitte art, he gets them for bad reasons but he gets better, honestly i would sell my soul to have enough money to buy ppitte art, i'm really bad at tagging things sorry, inspired by ppitte art twice over, rictor has tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-22 00:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14925650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owljustsitinthecorner/pseuds/owljustsitinthecorner
Summary: You are numb.You are so lost.There is nothing for you to feel.You have been cut off from everything.You are numb.





	Ink

**Author's Note:**

> so ppitte on tumblr did art of rictor with tattoos and it killed me and then the Angst Gremlin had an idea, and then i took my adhd meds and now i have 1785 words of rictor tattoo feelings

You are numb.

You are so lost.

There is nothing for you to feel.

You have been cut off from everything.

You are numb.

There is nothing where once your identity rested it was cut out and all that is left is this ache in your chest that is dull and numb. When you bled in battle it felt like magma forced from your veins. Now when you force the blood out it is cold. When you walked by the trees you felt their roots as they were nourished by your oldest friend. Now all you see are a bunch of damn mother fucking  **_trees_ ** .

 

You’re so fucking numb and you can’t fucking take it anymore. This needs to fucking stop but you don’t know how to fix it, how to cope with losing a piece of your  **_soul_ ** .

 

The trees stand there and you don’t feel them. You stand barefoot on the ground and you don’t feel anything and it hurts. It hurts because you can no longer have meaningful contact with your oldest friend and you feel so alone. It hurts because you never met anyone else like you so your oldest friend went from having you, someone who was connected to them every day since your powers first manifested. You are alone and your friend is alone.

 

And you know it hurts. You know it has to hurt. Something has to hurt.

You are numb.

There is nothing to feel.

You are numb.

Fuck being numb. Fuck the feeling of empty nothing you have to feel something damn it. You got caught last time you drew blood from your finger pads, injuries you could write off as paper cuts, wounds that never scar. But you got caught and now she’s stopping you from doing so. But you need to feel something damn it.

 

You are numb.

There is—

_ Oh, come on! _ there has to be  _ something _ damn it! Some way to…

 

Your hand falls to your hip as the memory of buzzing pain comes to you vividly. You and Tabs were dumb fucking teens and snuck out to get them. It was a moment where you just needed one act of normal teenage life. It’s just a stupid thing that you laughed off at the time, all your macho posing and your first tattoo was a tree. A photorealistic tat of a tree. You know why you got it. If you’re going to deal with needles might as well be for something that means something to you or your oldest friend.

You remember that buzzing hurt and the way the pain lingered like the sunburn you got once as a kid. Maybe if you make this one mean something more, the pain will mean something too and the numb will settle just a bit.

 

_ This is a really bad idea _ you know that, but you can’t really bring yourself to care because you can bring your oldest friend back to you in this small way and maybe it will hurt less.

* * *

You are not numb.

The skin on your chest burns, and yet it feels fantastic. To feel something. You sat there for hours, telling them you could take it all in one sitting once the design was finalized. The artist had a few ex-mutants come in for memorial tattoos. Mourning the loss of their powers with permanent body art. You set up very clearly, you were not mourning the loss of a power, you were honoring a friend that was silenced. The look you got was definitely wary, but they still designed a great piece. It’s sitting right above your heart. The earth, cracked with a decent sized chunk starting to break off, lava leaking from the inside like blood. They listened to you as you talked about your powers and how they worked, and created something so viscerally true to you that you’re pretty sure they were a mutant and this was their power. The earth looked like your heart felt. Cracked and broken with pieces starting to fall out. Bleeding.

 

You are not numb.

 

You press a hand over the bandage the burn stings a bit more. And you know you’re going to go back and get more for this sensation right here, this burn that takes away numb for a long as it takes to heal. This isn’t healthy but you don’t care. Without your powers, this is the best way to feel the earth again. You know they are there on your skin, inked there permanent.

* * *

You are better.

 

A dark moment on a ledge, a friend yelling from below about hell and damnation. Getting pushed by a crazy dupe. Months of bad day after bad day trying to find new ways to die, facing down a yard full of feds hoping to god they’d take the shot and it’d hit true. Thumbing the collections of tattoos from under the sweater. You want to be six feet under because then you get to be one with the earth again. You want to be six feet under because you miss your oldest friend. But then you found something to live for.

Or well. Something to live for attacked you with swords because he was being mind-controlled by a dupe abandoned in another timeline.  _ Jesus Christ, can we not have something normal happen for once? _

This might be normal.

Laying on a couch watching movies. Arms wrapped around you so tightly, and you know the eyes are tracing the ink. You can feel it, the same way you could feel the others the first time you walked around in just a tank top, rather than the normal sweater. He makes a noise, gentle, inquisitive. You’ve learned the way he communicates nonverbally, had to just to get this far. He wants to know why, you think. And for the first time, you realize that even with the unhealthy reasons you don’t regret them. You carry your friend The Earth with you everywhere because you can no longer feel them everywhere you go. You feel yourself sigh. You have two speeches, and neither apply here. One was scripted to be subtly angry because friends and strangers alike are judgmental assholes. You had to give it to Guido three times before he shut up about it. The other was scripted to be fake enthusiastic so that others with tattoos wouldn’t be off put by your self-harm tactic that turned into something more about reminding yourself the earth is  _ still there _ even if you can’t feel it anymore.

 

You don’t hold back the sigh as he traces them. Some mean nothing, just there to fill the blank spaces between the ones that have so many emotions you feel the weight when you think on too much. But you don’t have the words for him. So, you sit up and take off the shirt, turning around to face him. You don’t say anything because you don’t think you can. But if anyone can understand the need to not use words it’s him. You take the wrist of the hand that was tracing your arm and bring it up to the one over your heart. His fingers trace even more gently across this one. He doesn’t look you in the eye at this moment. Fully focused on the second tattoo you got, but the first dedicated to feeling something again. He analyzes it, you know for a fact that’s what he’s doing. His brows are furrowed, lips quirked down slightly. His other hand raises to rest on his own chest, above his own heart. And he nods.

 

You are going to need to explain with words at some point. But right now he understands enough for the both of you to return to cuddling on the couch, watching the same movie for the fourth time in the same night. He’s not quite verbal right now, so he doesn’t quote along, but his noises match the natural rise and fall of voice pitches when speaking. It’s comforting to feel those noises in his chest, and you know it’s comforting because they are vibrations. The same way going to a club to drink felt good because you couldn’t feel The Earth through your feet, but you could feel the bass up into your chest.

 

You haven’t put your shirt back on, so he traces around the broken earth and follows to the tattoo next to it. When you decided that you want more, you knew you were going to get full sleeves down both arms. The left side started over your heart with the broken earth, all down your arm were the flowers, trees, mountains, the GPS coordinates of your hometown, deep chasms in the earth, random quotes to fill space. It’s all in color. The inside of your wrist has thin streams of magma from a volcano because you used to bleed lava and now it’s just ice.

 

His right hand starts to trace the other arm while the left strokes the small volcano with firm purpose. The right arm was less meaning and more for the sake of looks. You never really outgrew the punk rocker phase, just became embarrassed for a while, and now you just don’t have the energy to maintain it. Abstract shapes, and punk symbols, honoring the life you wanted. The right to just be a normal adult with normal problems and the chance to choose how you look without worry. You honor that wish, that life, but you know you wouldn’t give up this life. Normal people don’t have aliens who love television for boyfriends. So, you honor it but won’t wish for it anymore.

 

It easy to let your eyes start to fall closed, the comfort of him treating you like a treasure you know you are not. His chest vibrating with gentle noises you think he’s doing for himself, and you. The left hand moving from your wrist to stroke your fingers lingering on the pads of your fingers. Your breathing has softened, he thinks you’re asleep, and you let it happen because it is rare. Slowly, gently he lifts your left hand to his mouth and kisses the tip of each finger because that conversation is one the both of you had early in the days you finally had him back. He wraps your arms around yourself as he hugs you closer, and you let yourself hum contentedly.

 

He cuts it short with a grunt and pulls a rock about from your back pocket where it presses against his thigh. He presses it into one hand. The left again. And allows you both to settle again.

 

You are better.

You are not numb.

You still ache.

But you are  _ Better _ .

 

**Author's Note:**

> i havent slept in 24 hours  
> but seriously i would die for ppitte's art but i dont have any damn money (or a tumblr to reblog their art to) so instead i write highly emotional fics inspired by their art


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